I put my new shoes on, and suddenly everything's right...

If you, my charming invisible reader, have not acquired the musical stylings of Paolo Nutini, I would strongly suggest it! Regardless, I hereby deliever to you the fruits of a particularly long bout of city center shopping: the new shoes.

I've been without a solid pair of black heels since the death of my last beloved pair in October. Yes, I have a penchant of stilletos, but these are the usual ice-picks that I pick up. And the good news is that I spent what converts to about $20 on them. I'm a relatively happy girl. I've really been trying to keep my consumerism to a minimum in this time of financial screwedness, but a girl needs black heels. I mean, honestly. I also tried on several coats that were on sale but didn't find one to my liking. I've still got a couple other stores to scout before I call off the search, and I want to try to take advantage of the post-christmas sales as much as possible. So after prowling the markets and making a quick trip to the supermarket, I returned home with hommus, cherry tomatoes, youhgurt, and two cadbury creme eggs and did this for a while:

Yep, just stared at them. It's a cheap thrill.

What a craptastic day.

Seriously. There were several occasions when today could have gone well, but decidedly did NOT. On the short list of things not going well, there was the Great Key Escapade of 2007 and the Kiesh Incident. Let me explicate...
The day already wasn't going all that well when I set out from my apartment, dog in tow. Muki and I have been getting along alright, but I get the feeling that her owners aren't all that up on discipline. Or maybe she's just taking advantage of the fact that I'm not her usual walker, I don't know. Regardless, I had her on the retractable leash, you know the kind-- plastic handle, cord which winds out to 15 feet, standard leash material up near the clip that attaches to the collar-- all very standard. This comes in as important later, so bear with me. Now, it takes about 25 minutes to walk to my student accomodation from the house I'm currently minding. This route takes us through Seaton Park, a bit of a shortcut, and with lots of big green spaces and interesting smells for the pup. However, Muki has dominance issues. They'd said that she didn't react well to other dogs while she's on a leash, maybe something happened to her when she was a puppy, they were pretty hazy on the details. But no worries, she's a good dog, we'll all be fine. And we are fine. However, she nearly took my shoulder out of its socket lunging at red squirrels on the walk to the student abode. I was heading back to my place to take a shower (as all the soap around here has bit of kelp and hippie in it, at which the jew-fro outright scoffs) and grab some different clothes, even trade in the long grey wool coat for the shorter blue wool jacket. I take my shower, Muki growls at my one remaining roommate, I grab the newly chosen coat, cell phone and keys out of the door and head back for the house, thinking I might still have time after the walk to get to the grocery store (oh wonder of wonders). We'd made it past several other dogs on leashes without a major confrontation, mostly done because I pull her in so tightly when I see another dog on the horizon and try to point her nose in another direction until they get past. However, we were almost out the park, and I thought the coast was basically clear. Coming down the hill at the far end of the park, near Wallace Tower where the path curves to the street, Muki had out about 12 feet of her leash as a man appeared from around the corner. Now, he wasn't on a bike, he wasn't running, he didn't have a dog with him on a leash or even one off a leash, he was JUST WALKING. (They'd told me that sometimes Muki is attracted to runners or bicycles because of the rapid movement.) It was at this point where she growls, barks, and LUNGES AT HIM. I yell, try to pull up the now fully extended leash, and watch in horror as she continues barking ferociously. I grab at the cord with my right hand and pull back, but Muki is a rather strong beastie, and the cord literally burned through my hand. I'm not sure how, but within 30 seconds she was back at my side, rolled on her back at my feet after several menacing words on my part. I held her on her back until the man walked past as I appologized profusely for what had just happened. He passed without further incident, and we struck out for home. It was at this point when I noticed the blistering burns across the pads of three out of four fingers on my right hand, the palm itself, and the ripped cut on the inside knuckle of my index finger... OW. ow, ow, ow.

It's hard to see, but she totally ripped off the skin in a burn-blister sort of way. So, I kept the leash fully rolled in for the rest of the walk home. We'd made it through the gate without further incident when I put my battered hand in the pocket of my blue coat... and realized that I'd grabbed my flat keys, but forgotten to grab their house keys out of the pocket of my grey coat. There was nothing doing but to walk BACK through the park where she'd just tried to eat a walker, all the way to my flat and get the key. Damn, damn, damn. We head back, myself refusing to allow her more than 5 feet of lead, and all the while cradling my right hand and holding the leash in my left. We were alright until we approached the fountain near the north side of the park, when some stupid chow mix comes vaulting out of nowhere, straight at Muki. I quickly try to turn Muki away from the oncoming, obviously over-friendly flying ball of fur, only to have Muki growl and snap, wrenching the leash nearly out of my hands. Unfortunately, my handedness was against me here, and I transferred the leash to my dominante right hand, despite the now oozing burns. Eventually the chow decided that it wasn't going to make a new friend and took off. We eventually made it back to my apartment, grabbed the key out of my pocket, and I collapsed on the bed for a good three minutes to regroup before walking back across the park for the FOURTH time. After rummaging through every drawer in my room I remembered that I'd loaned my bandaids to a flatmate who is currently in her native land, I swore profusely and struck out once more, patting my pockets repeatedly, trying to ward off any more stupid, stupid mistakes. On the walk back, version 4.0, we were AGAIN hailed by the chow, with similar results. Le sigh. Once we finally got back to the house and through the door, Muki and I weren't really on speaking terms. That didn't last long, I can't really hold a grudge against a dog, but I did try. With all possibility of a grocery run out of the question, I decided to pop over to the local co-op and just grab something simple and probably dreadfully unhealthy. This I found in the form of a kiesh which I bought and summarily placed in the oven. Then my mother called, telling me that I had recieved calls from a financial institution, telling me that I have an account in default and to please call, and Sallie Mae who also needed me to call. After getting all of the information, I called about the account. You see, I only have the one checking account with this particular financial institution, though I did formerly also have a credit card through them. I'd closed the card back in September before leaving for the UK. Only, I guess not. Somehow there was a $2.50 charge for "credit protection" which went on after I'd closed the account but before their records has "matured." And so, through non-payment, it had snowballed to $60-some dollars. Qua? Excuse me? After a bit of talking, they decided to waive the fees and ACTUALLY close the account. Why, thank you. Then I called Sallie Mae, only to have her tell me that my loans from my undergrad had gone into collection. WHAT. "But I sent in my in-school deferrment form that I'd requested from you. You are currently paying my way through my graduate program," says I. "Hmm, I see that. Well, we never got the form back... Oh, wait, I see here that it was recieved but not entered. We're going to need you to print such-and-such form off from our website and have your university back-date it. We'll suspend all action on the account right now and await this new paperwork," says they. Oh, well, thank you so very much. Le sigh. At least I don't have to repay right now, I guess that's a mercy. So, then I call back the parents and let them know that I'm not a deliquent, that everything is alright, and then I smell my keish. Oh, no. I run to the oven, pull it out-- the whole top of it is blackened. On any other day, this wouldn't have reduced me to level of non-verbal rage that I hit, but my hand hurt, my legs hurt, and the only thing I had to eat in the entire house that wasn't organic pumpkinseed loaf made without eggs, dairy or wheat or elderflower juice had just burnt under my nose. "Why are you snapping at me?" asks my mother when I retort that I'll call the bank back and get them to send out a letter confirming the closing of the account. "Because it's been a rotten, rotten day, okay?" I half-scream into the skype headset, "please, just leave me alone!" We quickly made up, I peeled away the burnt layers of egg and cheese, and Muki sat on my feet until I forgave her everything. She can be quite convincing when she's not trying to eat people.



At the end of the day, just glad it's the end of the day.

Christmas Day

As opposed to the immediately previous post, I would like to contend that I am NOT a whiny, mewling mammot. Honestly.


Today passed almost effortlessly. I didn't do a damn thing to celebrate, except for opening a handful of cards that my flatmates had shoved under my door before they took off for their respective homes. I think by doing absolutely nothing to mark the day actually made it easier. I called home in the morning before the crew left for mass, and they called back at two seperate points subsequent. All in all, a good day. I'm no longer filled with angst or homesickness, and the previous post seems disgustingly melodramatic. However, it was certainly how I was feeling at the time. Embarrassingly enough. Oh well.

Time to let the pup I'm sitting out one last time and then hunker down with the last few hundred pages of War & Peace. Expect a tender review when I finally finish it. :)

Christmas Eve

So, I'm still here in Aberdeen. For the holidays. Thousands of miles from my family and native home and snow and people I love and warmth and pine trees and my mother's kitchen. Needless to say, I'm having a bit of a tough time of it.
I've never been one for homesickness-- I went away to college, missed a handful of holidays and birthdays for assorted and various reasons, some of them good and some of them not. This isn't the first time I've been a long way from home, but I've never had such a hollow feeling in my heart as I do now.

Christmas music makes me irrationally hostile. My lips compress, my eyes narrow, and I dig my fingernails into the underside of the table before I even recognized the tune. If I hear Mariah Carey one more time I may smash something. Why? I was never a huge fan of modern christmas music, but I used to really enjoy hymns and traditional carols and some solid 1950s holiday ablums... now I subconsciously avoid street corners with loudspeakers, shopping plazas and the walks behind the chapel on campus where groups seem to be perpetually singing. Now that I think about, it seems simple enough-- it all reminds me of home, but I'm not at home and can't get myself there, so I'm ignoring the problem. Fair enough.

But why is this so hard now? Is it because, for the first time in my adult life, I've put myself in a situation where I can't physically get myself home via my own means? Before I always had my car, I could have just hopped into the driver's seat, put the fuel on the credit card and driven through the night, clawing my way from rest stop to rest stop if necessary. Now I don't have that luxury, and I'm just now beginning to realize what a luxury it was. I've always been conscious of my attachment and fondness for my cars (all two of them that I've ever had) and my dependance on them, but this just opens up a whole new level. They were my mobility, my freedom, my escape pod. I could always get myself back home.
Now there's a big ocean between Munith and myself, and there's not a whole lot I can do about it. I called home a lot in the past couple of weeks, and I even called today without crying. I've cried more in the past moth than I have in the previous 12 months combined. I'm not a weepy person by nature, I don't think, but everytime I would get an e-mail from home or I'd hear the girls laughing in the background as I talked to mom, I couldn't get around the catch in my throat. I'd muscle through the rest of the call, not wanting to make the pain more acute for my mother, who has been rather querrelous this season as well, if my sisters' accounts are to be trusted, and I know that me not being home at this time of year is as hard on her as it is on me. However, once off the phone, I'd curl up on my chair or bed and cry like a little girl-- I'm not okay with this. Seriously. Not okay. I'm a grown-up, and grown-ups are sometimes alone on national holidays. These things happen and nobody dies. So why do I feel like my heart is breaking?

I'm currently house-sitting for a lecturer of mine from this past semester, watering plants and keeping company with their dog, Muki, who is a lovely, loyal creature if there ever was one. As I write this she keeps pacing back and forth in and out of the room, sitting now at my feet and gazing up at me. She follows me from computer to couch to window to kitchen and then back to the couch again. We've been going on walks and she gets me out of bed in the morning-- all in all, a very good thing. I'm infinitely grateful not to be the only beating heart in this abode.

I called home again this afternoon, and the crackle in the connection only emphasized the distance. I didn't cry, and somehow that was worse. I spoke to M3, and his sister is visiting him for the season. He's surprising her with a two-day trip to Paris for New Years, and they sound so happy. He finally got the package I sent him with a copy of Anna Karenina and a collected works of Shakespeare that I mailed 6 weeks ago, so I suppose that works as an inadvertent christmas present. He said he was sorry that I didn't have any family with me. I shrugged it off. How could I possibly explain?

My sister put up pictures of the tree and the decorating process at home, the making of pierogies, general festivities on the homefront, and though I begged her to do it, I didn't tell her how they pain me. They all look so happy and I just feel cold, even in my sweater. But I keep going back to them, sort of like the way you rub at a bruise and make it bigger in spite of yourself. To spite your self.

I walked down the block and found a little corner store run by a family of loud Pakistanis, and on a tip from a friend, found some polish pierogie. I bought two packages and fried up the one for dinner this evening. You see, dear reader, this is one of the traditions that I just can't replicate in my single solitude. It takes a whole day and every member of my family to pull of the hundreds of cheese and potato pierogie that we make, then fry up with onions and eat on christmas eve and christmas morning. The smell and spattering grease get into everything, like laughter and snowflakes. These are the trappings that I miss. The pierogie that I fried this evening were cottage cheese and raisin, and despite not being anything like what I'm used to, were just fine. Very filling, and as close to home as I could really expect on this island. I'll save the other for tomorrow evening, which I'm sure will be equally delightful.

I didn't even really realize that today was christmas eve until I sat down at my computer and looked at the date. I remember driving home from midnight mass by myself in a recently past year, stopping to buy gas, and think that, without all the human interaction, there was nothing in the air that would have told me it was christmas. Nothing that seemed special or unique or out of the ordinary. I was utterly devoid of the "spirit of the season." I guess I still am, but now I'm also without the driving human forces of home. I didn't put up a tree or even a bush, no boughs festooned my door, no smell of pine, no lights in the window. I thought about buying a string of lights and hanging them over my desk or maybe in my one window, but then I thought about my deminished funds and the general lack of outlets. I decided against it for these very practical reasons without delving into the impractical, embarrassing reasons of lonliness and disenchantment.

I didn't find a vigil mass to go to this evening. To be honest, it's been a really, really long time since I've gone to church. Even longer since I genuinely prayed. I think I've read too much philosophy to pray well anymore. I almost tried a few nnights ago, but just couldn't bring myself to make an honest try. So I rolled over and manhandled my pillow into a new shape and tried to sleep.

But I brought two different red sweaters, grey pants and a pair of stilletos with me for tomorrow, google-searched a church that will be open. I think mass might be at 10 down near the city center, which means I need to leave here around 9. I'm going to try. At least I've made the effort so far, the lead up to actually going, so I can't use that as an excuse. If I decide against it later, it's a decision and not a consequence.

I need to go to sleep. Muki has given up on me. In the process of writing this, it's turned from christmas eve to christmas day. No one will come wake me up in the morning, no hurrying of little-girl-bare-feet-over-carpet, no jumping on my bed to wake me up and haul me downstairs, no mom in her robe turning on the coffee pot and christmas lights, no stocking over the fireplace. There's a fireplace here, in the house I'm watching for the season, and I've lit a fire the past two nights, but it's long out now. Muddy Waters sings to me through the speakers, I've got a cheap bottle of white wine and somebody else's dog leaning heavily against me.

So this is what it feels like to be a grown-up.

Forget your wild Irish roses...

... What I have for you are some hardy Scottish flowers!

All of these pictures were taken within the city of Aberdeen, Scotland. I took them within the past week on various long walks that I've been taking since the colsure of classes. Please bear in mind that we here on the coast of the North Sea have been withstanding gale-force winds that I would put up against anything I ever encountered in Sault Sainte Siberia. The sleet here is as common as snow back home, and yet these amazing doric flowers continue to bloom... I'm living in an enchanted land, that's all I can figure.


This lovely orange-yellow almost-peace rose bush is between the Queen Mother Library and a carpark on campus. The one bloom looks like it's been hit by a hard frost, but the others somehow withstood the nightly hoar-frosts.


This little pink flower is just one of a large bed on Gallowgate, heading towards the City Center.


White roses in Seaton Park, on my walk to Uni-- these have apparently magical greenskeepers who tend to them on a weekly basis, but mostly just nip dead flowers off the bushes and topiary-type trees.


A close-up of the white roses... I was impressed firstly by the flower and secondly by the thirty seconds of NO WIND that allowed me to take the picture... *gasp of shock and happiness!*


And what really gets me is that these are not old blooms that have been frozen and thus look fresh-- oh no. They're still budding and blooming!


A bed of pink roses, just to prove that these are not isolated, freak occurances!


Another cluster of white roses.


A pretty pink one on the far end of the formal gardens.


Amazingly red rose in the middle of December... you know, like you do.


One last pink rose just as you get to the top of the hill and are exiting Seaton Park.


A yellow rose on Tillydrone Avenue, I was astonished at how bright the yellow was, but the surrounding grey granite glistening under a hard frost and a bit of ice probably helped the overall impression.


In somebody's yard on Hayton Road. What you can't see are all the crushed beer cans and forgotten children's toys in the rest of the yard. These roses are definitely continuing to exist with no help from the human coinhabitants, and all this amazes me. Back home I wouldn't be able to get roses to look like this if I spent hundreds of dollars and 12 hours a day coaxing them. Here, people ignore and even trample them and they blossom all the more fully-- I love it.

Help!

So, what do you think??

What do you think?

Click on the title and help me out!